Jacobite Historical
Before the Brave Key
Mairi Douglas
The key was still warm from the dead woman’s hand when Eilidh Cameron understood that loyalty had a sound: iron against bone, small as a breath, final as a kirk bell. She stood in the back passage of Harbour House with her apron streaked in lampblack and rain, while the dining room beyond the green baize door roared with men pretending history was something they could drink into obedience.
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